


Daisies for Anderson

by incapricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's laptop keeps playing porn; it must be Sherlock's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daisies for Anderson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Essie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie/gifts).



> With thanks to kaalee for beta-reading.

"Um. Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his book, but his eyebrows rose a few millimetres, which was probably all the acknowledgement John was going to get.

"Were you using my laptop recently?"

Sherlock's eyes continued to dart back and forth as he read. "Recently is an imprecise term. I could answer yes or no and still be entirely truthful. To the universe, a million years ago is recent."

"Today, Sherlock. Did you use my laptop today? Specifically, in the last hour, when I was in the loo?"

"No. Is something wrong with it? Perhaps you've been infected by a virus. Even a highly intelligent person is capable of accidentally downloading a well-disguised Trojan horse, so for you--"

Sherlock lowered his book and looked at John. "You didn't open any attachments from Anderson, did you?"

"Anderson... doesn't email me."

The book went back up. "Good."

Reluctantly, John opened his laptop again. The video was gone. He launched his anti-virus program and checked that it was up-to-date. It was. Recent scans showed no problems. "No, it's not a virus. Are you sure you didn't--"

A new video appeared. There were three men this time, and...

My God. How was that even pleasurable? Didn't that _hurt_?

"It must be a virus. What else would make pornography play every time you open an application? Unless that's from your personal collection, but I don't think so." Sherlock's voice took on a note of sly amusement. "Double anal penetration, John, really?"

John slammed the laptop shut. "It _was_ you. You put those videos there, how else could you know--"

"Oh, please. It was clear from your pupils and respiration -- dilated and increased, respectively -- that you were aroused by what you saw. But you winced slightly and shifted in your chair. Combine that with the fact that you have a higher than normal libido, and obvious: double penetration."

"Obvious. Right."

Sherlock dropped his book to his lap again and rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. Do I need to spell it out for you? You masturbate at least once a day, often twice, sometimes three times -- impressive, by the way, for a man your age. It stands to reason that you have experimented with anal penetration for the purpose of prostate stimulation -- anything for better orgasms -- and therefore a garden-variety single penetration wouldn't make you wince. Hence, two cocks, one arse."

A number of questions spun through John's head: first, was Sherlock studying his masturbation habits? Second, should he be insulted by the "man your age" remark? However, there was a third question that was more pressing than the rest:

"Since when do you know or care about any of that?"

"Any of what?"

"Sex. I thought you found that sort of thing dull and pointless."

"I never said I didn't."

"No, but... you don't keep things that aren't interesting."

"Incorrect. I don't keep data that aren't useful. There's a difference."

John frowned and Sherlock's 'I am deeply disappointed by your stupidity' expression deepened.

"Do you know what percent of cases have romantic or sexual entanglements at their core?"

"Well, I would guess--"

"Rhetorical question, John. The answer is eighty-six. Roughly ten percent of those are murders that occurred before, during or immediately after sexual activity. I have an extensive database cataloguing sexual positions, toys, fetishes, kinks, and etcetera. I have to, otherwise my work would suffer."

John assumed Sherlock meant a mental database, not some sort of encyclopaedia of porn programmed into his computer. Although the latter would explain why he was so unwilling to let John borrow his laptop...

"My brain is my hard drive, remember?"

"That will never not unnerve me."

"Viewing my brain as a hard drive? Why? It's a perfectly valid metaphor, even if it's not entirely accurate from a neuroscience perspective."

"No, you responding to something I thought but didn't say."

Sherlock smirked. "You glanced at my laptop. Probably weren't even aware of it."

Right. Not psychic, just observant. That was good. "So, what? You tried everything once, on the off chance it came up in a case?"

"Of course not. Mostly I watched videos, read forums and chats, browsed various online stores to see what was offered. I went to a few live shows when more detail was needed."

John tried to imagine Sherlock skulking around a strip club, observing a lap dance the way he studied a corpse, magnifying lens in hand. He'd probably been thrown out within minutes.

"You find that amusing?"

"No. Well, yes, actually. Studying sex like it's some sort of dry academic subject. You can't possibly understand the nuances of human... of sexual experiences without... _experiencing_ them."

"I don't need to understand what something feels like in order to recognize it."

"But--"

"Explain to me how, say, getting a blowjob would help me solve a murder."

John sighed. "Fine, maybe it wouldn't. But who knows, it might relax you, which could help you think more clearly."

"My thinking is perfectly clear."

"Of course, yes. You're perfect, how could I forget? You never make any mistakes. Fine."

John yanked his laptop open. The bloody video was still there. He was just going to watch it, then, until it went away. He crossed his arms, aware that Sherlock was staring at him. He didn't even know why he was so angry. Sherlock was so infuriating sometimes.

"Oh." Sherlock said, his eyes widening a bit. "Interesting." He stood and strode out of the room.

On John's screen, the man on the receiving end moaned like some sort of wounded animal.

Everyone in this bloody flat was mental, himself included, decided John.

"John? Are you coming?"

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt.

"What kind of question is that?" asked John, "I'm not even touching myself!"

"Allow me to rephrase my question: are you going to get up out of that chair and follow me into my bedroom?"

"And why would I do that?"

"To give me a blowjob, obviously," Sherlock answered, then turned and retreated down the short corridor towards his room.

Completely bloody mental, John thought. "I wasn't offering!" John shouted. He shut his laptop -- the video had ended, he noticed -- and put it on the coffee table.

"Sherlock," he said as he walked into his bedroom, "I really wasn't offering to give you a--"

Sherlock was naked. He was also on his bed, reclining like some kind of Pharaoh waiting for his slaves to service him. But the naked part -- yes, that was the significant thing, according to various parts of John's anatomy.

Really spectacularly significant.

My God. How had he missed something so obvious about himself? Sherlock was rubbing off on him. Not literally. Figuratively rubbing.

No, that train of thought wasn't helping the uncomfortable arousal situation at all.

"You were saying?"

"Um. What?" John blinked. His heart was thrumming in his chest. "Oh. I wasn't... I was just trying to explain-- I didn't. I didn't say all that because I wanted to have sex with you."

"Are you sure?"

"I think I would know if I were attracted to you."

"And are you?"

John didn't answer, but he was sure Sherlock could read the signs in his eyes and the front of his trousers and the way he couldn't stop staring. He'd known he was drawn to Sherlock -- how could he not be, the man was a genius, able to take the world apart with his mind -- but he'd never considered that it might be sexual. But apparently, it really, really was.

"You didn't know how you felt." Sherlock sounded... intrigued. Like he wanted to understand, not mock. John relaxed a little.

"No."

"And yet I knew, despite having _only_ observed."

John ignored the barb. He was used to Sherlock being right even when John was completely sure he was wrong. But wait, had Sherlock never experienced--

"You must have been attracted to someone before."

Sherlock shrugged. "Not generally, no. Most people can't hold my interest for longer than the span of a conversation. But there have been notable exceptions. One fairly recently."

"Lucky person." John meant it sarcastically, but it came out sounding almost reverent, his voice low and scratchy.

"Yes, lucky you."

John licked his lips. "Me?"

"Of course, John."

"You're attracted to me."

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since the moment we met, obviously."

"Oh. But. You never said anything."

"Why would I? There was nothing to say. I'm not an animal, John. I can control my urges. I was perfectly satisfied with our friendship. I wasn't pining away, wishing you would only want me back."

"So, what changed?"

"I've discovered that the sexual attraction is mutual."

"I see." John licked his lips. "Um. I... don't really know what to say now."

"I don't believe any more talking will be necessary," Sherlock said, taking one hand and rubbing languidly at his cock. It hardened, rising up and filling with blood.

"Christ," John whispered. He stumbled towards the bed, and then crawled onto it, feeling the texture of the blanket on his palms and the give of the springs. Sherlock spread his legs apart; John kept crawling until he was kneeling between Sherlock's knees, looking down at his prick.

"I haven't done this in a while," he said, glancing at Sherlock's face.

It had been years, actually; before, it had always been in the dark, in a tent or the back seat of a Jeep, the air stained by violence, faces averted. Never in a bed with the sun streaming through the window. Never with someone who would look him in the eyes without a trace of guilt or shame.

This was something entirely different. In some ways, John had never done this before.

"No matter, I can talk you through it. My understanding is it involves opening one's mouth and placing it over an erect penis, then moving in a steady rhythm to stimulate the--"

"Oh, shut up, I know how to give a Goddamn blow job," John said, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock's hips and bending forward, taking Sherlock's cock into his mouth deeply and without preamble.

"--glans and the-- oh." Sherlock's voice dropped to a deep rumble. "That's.... yes. I... oh, John..."

That was better.

Bracing himself on one elbow, John wrapped his other hand around the base of Sherlock's cock and began to move it in time with the bobbing of his head. Sherlock responded with a deep exhale. John grinned as best he could manage with his lips stretched around a mouthful of penis.

There was a trick he'd learned -- well, not learned, but had done to him by a fellow soldier when he was in basic training -- and getting the coordination right would be difficult but... he thought he could manage. John flicked his tongue down over Sherlock's fraenulum, sucking hard and twisting his hand at the same time in a specific rhythm, something he could still feel in his sense memory.

Sherlock moaned. It was a low deep noise that filled John with an almost animal lust. He opened his throat and took Sherlock in deeper, revelling in the salty taste hitting the back of his tongue. Sherlock thrust his hips up, pushing his cock deep into John's mouth, and then he did it again and again. John sped up the pace, pulling and sucking roughly, his left shoulder beginning to tremble a little from supporting his weight.

It was thrilling to feel Sherlock lose control, writhing, hands clutching at the blankets, breath coming faster and faster. Sherlock didn't speak -- he had said it wouldn't be necessary, after all -- but he wasn't silent either. He gasped and moaned and as John felt Sherlock's cock grow harder under his tongue, Sherlock growled.

John moved his free hand -- sliding it along the bed while keeping his elbow steady -- and touched Sherlock's side, along his ribs, feeling a spark run through his hand where it met Sherlock's warm, smooth skin. At the touch, Sherlock cried out. John felt semen pulse into the back of his throat, hot and bitter, while Sherlock shook beneath him. John continued to move, slower than before, until Sherlock was still except for the heaving of his chest.

John swallowed and pulled himself up to a kneeling position. Sherlock's eyes were open and his face was flushed. He was looking at John with an expression that John had never seen before, at least not on Sherlock.

"That was... good," Sherlock said.

John chuckled.

"I'm having difficulty finding adequate words to describe the experience. I believe that disproves your theory."

"I wasn't aware I had a blowjob-related theory."

"You said it would make my thinking clearer. In fact, it's done the opposite."

John felt a helpless surge of affection for Sherlock. "No, you've reached your conclusion too soon. It makes you not think at all for a bit, so later you can think better. That's the whole point."

"I question the scientific validity of that... of that..." Sherlock reached his hands up to the ceiling imploringly. "I can't think of the word. What have you done to me?"

"Idea? Theory? Statement?"

"Hypothesis! Hypothesis. I've known that word since I was four."

"Right. Well, I'm going to consider that a compliment."

"Clearly I'll need to gather more data."

"Oh," said John. "So, you're going to go prowling London for sex or something?" He didn't like the idea much. Sherlock had very little sense of self-preservation; he would probably end up picking up a serial killer or would get himself knifed in a back alley, or shot by a jealous boyfriend, or--

"Why would I need to do that, when I have a flatmate with the libido of a teenager?"

John felt a grin spread across his face. "That's true."

"That is, if you wouldn't mind..."

"I think I could manage that, yeah. You know, for science."

John crawled up to the head of the bed and lay down next to Sherlock, tentatively putting one hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock looked at John and smiled. Then he leaned over and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to John's lips. It was tender and almost... romantic.

Oddly enough, John didn't mind. That was surprising. He would have to think about that. Later. For now, he was just going to not think at all.

John could feel Sherlock's heart beating beneath his hand. Sherlock snaked his arm beneath John's head and curled his hand into John's hair. John closed his eyes, and then opened them again when he felt Sherlock's other hand rub against the front of his trousers.

It was a simple enough touch, just a slide of a hand across fabric, but it sent a ripple of pleasure through John's prick and up his spine. He exhaled raggedly, and Sherlock repeated the motion.

"Sherlock, I--" began John, but before he could say another word, Sherlock had undone John's flies and stuck his hand into John's underpants.

"Like this, I believe," murmured Sherlock, gripping John's cock and moving his hand in the perfect rhythm.

God bless Sherlock's slightly creepy observational skills. This was going to be quick. A few more strokes and--

His orgasm was sharp and sweet.

John closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock zip him back up and wipe his hand on John's shirt. Never mind, that's what washing machines were for.

John was close to drifting off to sleep when Sherlock said, "We should send Anderson a token of our appreciation."

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

"Oh, that virus on your computer. It's from Anderson."

There was always a surprise with Sherlock. "And you know this how, exactly?"

"Well, it's a funny story. I was using your laptop, and--."

"Wait. When I asked you, you said you hadn't used it."

"You asked if I'd used it today. This happened yesterday."

"So, are you telling me _you_ opened an attachment from Anderson?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, but only because I was expecting him to send me an analysis of the bone fragments from that double murder we investigated last month."

"You infected my laptop with a virus and didn't remove it."

"I... thought I had removed it, actually."

John had no response to that but laughter.

"Computer viruses are very sophisticated nowadays!"

"Of course they are. Don't worry, it doesn't make you any less of a genius to have been outwitted by a bit of software."

"Shut up," Sherlock said. His voice was petulant but there was a smile playing around his mouth.

"I still don't see why we ought to thank Anderson for sending you a virus."

"I might not have known how you felt if it weren't for that video. You... didn't react the way I expected. I thought you'd be upset."

"I _was_ upset."

"You were upset that you thought I'd been using your laptop. Which, granted, I had been, but that's not the point. You were also upset that I considered sex an unnecessary activity. That was the surprise."

"So, from that you figured out that I was attracted to you."

"Of course, why else would you even care?"

John thought about it. "I... don't know, actually. That's a good point. I did wonder why I was getting so angry."

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's forehead. "I wondered too, and then it was obvious."

"You're right," John said. "We should send Anderson flowers."

"Daisies, perhaps."

"Why? Do those mean something in the language of flowers?"

"What, 'Thanks to you, I shagged my flatmate'? No, I was thinking daisies because Anderson is allergic."

John laughed, and then frowned. "How allergic?"

"Oh, nothing serious. He'll just sneeze a lot. No violation of the Hippocratic oath required."

It wasn't much of a thank you, but it was rather fitting, considering. "Yeah," John said, sliding his hand up Sherlock's chest to caress his neck. "I'll call a florist later this afternoon."


End file.
